


oliver twist

by nsmorig



Series: 1920s Oxford AU [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Body Image, Gen, Libraries, Meet-Goblin, Nott Has Issues, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 15:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16895574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsmorig/pseuds/nsmorig
Summary: She's sprinting down the world's longest stairway, the cane clutched in her hand and bouncing off the steps with that wonderful metallic noise, and she feels alive but also, uh, sort of terrified, because she thinks the guy she pickpocketed might be a Member of Parliament, or some sort of lord, or something.What was she supposed to do? She'd got the itch. She's only got so much self-control.(1920s-AU 'how they met' prologueish fic for Caleb and Nott.)





	oliver twist

This part of London isn't made for people like Nott. It shows. It worms its way into her brain in the ways that the people in the street in their spiked heels and their bowler hats refuse to look at her, the way that her ragged cloak and torn gloves seem like they're not even clothes next to the silk that the woman on the corner is wearing. She's invisible here; it's why she's here.

 

Nott is out of place here, and so are all her friends. They won't come here, and that means she's safe. That means she lives in this part of London now, where theatres sprawl out onto the street and they call them Gentleman's Clubs rather than brothels. Or, rather, she lives in the alleys  _ behind _ the brothels and theatres.

 

There are precious few places to work. Saint Pancras and Euston Station used to be just wonderful, a veritable playground of distracted commuters with deep pockets, but the police there know her face now. Museums and theatres are fun, but the tourists are too alert. So, for the first time in her life, she's in a library.

 

Fuck.

 

It's not by choice, exactly. There was a man in the street, and he walked past her where she was in line at the cheapest restaurant in a square mile, and he'd been carrying a cane. It was so, so pretty. And it clicked! It tapped on the ground like a siren call, shiny metal on the end almost striking sparks from the cobbles, and he'd almost disappeared between the carriages before she'd been able to get after him without drawing attention.

 

She did, though. Because she's the best.

 

He'd walked fast through the early evening mist, in his great black fur coat and his stupid round hat that made him look like an acorn, and she's only got short legs, so she'd focused on following silently and being invisible, and had almost not noticed where they’d gone by the time he was headed up the steps to the library.

 

Big steps. Posh marble steps, and some odd sort of garden thing, with statues that looked like fey spirits being turned into gold, and then he'd disappeared into the building.

 

The asshole. A mark isn't allowed to get off the street when she's after them. It's rude.

 

Oddly, though, to her consternation, the people on the door hadn't turned her away. The men in red jackets with their neat golden trim had looked at her kinda funny, but they'd opened the door, and said "You'll need a reader's pass to get into the collections. Exhibitions on the second floor."

 

So she'd gone in.

 

And now she's sprinting down the world's longest stairway, the cane clutched in her hand and bouncing off the steps with that wonderful metallic noise, and she feels  _ alive _ but also, uh, sort of terrified, because she thinks he might be a Member of Parliament, or some sort of lord, or something.

 

What was she supposed to do? She'd got the itch. She's only got so much self-control.

 

She takes a hard left on the second landing, still accelerating like a small, green, ragged comet, bursts through the first door she can find without windows and only just remembers to catch it behind her so that it doesn't slam. Her claws bite into the rich wood and dust motes, luminous in the lamp-light, drift past her face as she presses one eye to the keyhole. She tries to breathe silently. Adrenaline stings in the back of her brain.

 

The man, the Duke of Guillveray or whoever the fuck he is, rounds the corner just out of her sight, breathing hard, and she hears him bite out a 'Bugger.' Then, just to make the situation worse, she hears more footsteps, heavy despite the thick carpeting.

 

She supposes that the men in the lobby in the fancy jackets had a purpose. One of them, she remembers with the acidic clarity of terror, had a gun.

 

The dust glows in the lamplight.

 

The lamps are on.

 

Someone turned them on.

 

She puts her breathing on hold until she thinks it's worth it, ie. when she doesn't think she'll die in the next ten seconds, and turns around very, very slowly.

 

He's about as still as she is, eyes dark and almost violent where they meet hers, tension in every line of his body. Red hair glows against the reading lamp he's curled against. His expression is possibly best described as 'inscrutable,' although, Nott thinks, 'about as comforting as a headstone with her name on it' works too.

 

As she stands there on the threshold, back against the door with time frozen, he blinks once and then raises a hand with an unexpected speed, hissing out three words in a language she doesn't recognise.

 

She's on her toes again, almost in motion, before the door falls away behind her and his expression shifts like ripples on water. 

 

“Good afternoon, Sir,” he says with a confused smile, the hint of a German accent around his vowels, and Nott turns to see the same man from before, with the expression of a walrus having been hit on the head with a sledgehammer, blinking down at her.

 

She hears herself squeak.

 

“Uh, sorry,” the walrus croaks. “Did you see-- some sort of gremlin-- stole my cane--”

 

“Sir, we have been in here for several hours and you are our first visitor,” the man at the desk replies, in what Nott can now recognise as a very good lie.

 

The man leans forward, almost shaking with anger now. He looms. He has no talent at it, but he does have the height.

 

“Are you sure-- You haven’t heard anything-- I’ll wring its neck--”

 

“Sir. We have neither seen nor heard  anything, as I have made clear, and you are frightening my daughter.”

 

He looks down, looming almost over her head, and she drops her gaze-- and understands.

 

Her hands, twisted together, are just hands. They’re a pale human-colour, and speckled with dots, and sort of pudgy, and there are no claws on them, or scars, and she thinks she might cry.

 

The walrus, or the duke or whoever he is, blinks into empty space with an expression of fantastic bewilderment and searches the vaulted ceiling for answers. He rotates a little, turns to look behind him down the corridor, and twists his ugly hat in his hands.

 

Nott is running almost entirely on adrenaline at this point, and figures, well, she can always jump out of the window-- and she sniffs. Makes her eyes big. Wobbles her lower lip like a small child wanting something, which is what she hopes she looks like. It’s stiff, she can tell, the muscles in her face twitching with the urge to grin or giggle or run, but it  _ works. _

 

He looks down again, and his small eyes crease. "Ah--" He stumbles-- "I am so sorry."

 

He kneels down and looks her in the eye, his posture miserable with worry and shame, and he pats her hand. His skin is cold and the texture of dry paper, and she wishes he wasn't touching her, but she's never been apologised to by someone wearing polished shoes before. 

 

"I apologise for scaring you, little miss," he says. "Buy yourself something nice," and he counts out five whole shining pounds into her hand.

 

She lets a smile spread across her face, and knows he isn't staring at her teeth. He's terrible, just awful, smarmy and rich and he's got a face like chewed-up pink bubblegum but he's seeing a little human girl, so she's walking on air.

 

The five pounds in her hand also help with that.

 

He blinks at the ceiling again and turns, closes the door behind him. 


End file.
